[ Hm... he isn't sure how easily it was to converse like this but it comes naturally. Lyney dismisses him with a wave of his hand over his own nose, playing it off. ]
Maybe I'll be stuck in one of those pipes too long and unable to accept your invitation. How unfortunate.
[ Would it be unfortunate? It's just tea...
...Right? ]
Your cheek wouldn't be the only thing bruised, in that case.
[ Anyone looking on might think the two of them were on friendly terms. What terms are they on now, anyway? Coming down from the high of the bout, Wriothesley does wonder. But it only lasts a moment in the face of Lyney's little taunt. Cheeky damned kid. ]
I don't take bruises our Head Nurse can't patch up. [ Which reminds him, he's in for a scolding if he doesn't get a move on. Whoops. ] Until next time.
[ He makes his way for the exit, deciding he'll ponder on the handful of mistakes he made during the match on his stroll to the infirmary. The alternative is wondering what manner of conversation just transpired--maybe a mistake in itself, or maybe another little victory. ]
Uh-huh... maybe she's the one really running the place. Later, Your Grace.
[ Wriothesley takes his leave and leaves Lyney confused. Why was he so... different? He actually didn't want him to go for a moment or two. It was easy to talk to him then, to not feel like he was a little worker bee in an entity he couldn't care less about.
He stays in line. Wakes up, works for coupons, writes his letters, and makes his deal with Wriothesley.
What else is there?
It's a countdown until he's gone... but he couldn't lie to himself that it was nice to actually smile. To feel a little less... alone. He hates how lonely he feels. His frustrations pale in comparison to what he's sure Lynette feels, he has to keep remembering that.
Those letters first delivered echo in his mind. Her bed is cold, after all, and even in his... he feels it. He hasn't slept alone in years and when his soulmate and twin is stripped from his side... there's only so much a boy like him could handle.
There's a vulnerability sproutingĀ in his heart he doesn't like. Fanning flames he didn't need to consume him. Bitterness, anger, frustrations.Ā What does it boil down to?
He's lonely. Plain and simple.
When he crawls into the bed for the night in his sleepwear, he didn't think he would be stuck re-reading Lynette's letters. The pile stacked at his side grows more like a mess as he goes through them -- until he allows himself a moment of delusion.Ā
Thinking of how Lynette wouldĀ fill the bed nicely with him, keep him warm... there's no way to avoid his reaction. His cock twitches to life until it's free to the air. It's been months and a gnawing sense of desire calls to him.Ā
Oh, how he wished it was Lynette's fingers wrapping around his cock, from base to tip. How he liked it best ā consumed with want and touch. His fingers hold tight, tugging at himself quickly enough to stifle a moan past his lips. This relief wasn't something he sought out often, but he needs this. He needs to delude himself in thinking of something other than the fear he has inside.
So he channels it in pleasure, in something he believes in ā that he hopes to always give Lynette.Ā
Lyney rolls his shirt up, bites the end to keep his stomach exposed. If he's going to make a mess, he's going to ensure he doesn't use the damn towels he has to work hard to keep after his shifts. The sound of his wrist hitting the base of his cock is like music to his ears, taking him to places far away from here.Ā
He thinks of it akin to taking Lynette from behind ā where her backside would impact so beautifully to his pelvis.Ā
The tip of his cock weeps pre-cum, sticky against his fingers as he works himself over. Tension in his heart, his mind, his body... they all bring him here. Frustrations beyond what he's ready to accept.
He thinks of Lynette, he always does ā but.
Something else flashes in his mind.
Lyney grunts at the realization that his cock twitches roughly between diligent fingers at the thought of Wriothesley. He can't shake the image from earlier -- bare chest, sweat and that softer way he looked to him. A curious thought annoys him more than he'd like to admit but it doesn't go away.Ā
The boy whimpers out, fingers moving down to cup at the swell of a smooth sac, fondling at himself in addition to his frantic tugs of his cock. He can't help it -- imagining now if Wriothesley'sĀ hands were capable of anything other than fighting.Ā
And he imagines them wrapped around him soon after. Touching at him, squeezing him. What it would feel like to touch Wriothesley in return. ...Would he be cold? Warm, just like Lynette...?
Fuck.
He can't do this -- he tilts his head away, burying into the smoothness of the pillow. Thinking of stubble on the crook of his neck, of rough hands on his body. A few idle bucks up into his grasp gives Lyney all the leeway he needs to chase his orgasm. An arch of his back helps control the angle, when he pitifully finishes on his stomach. It pools just under his belly button, seeping down to the top of his crotch as the boy collapses down in a frantic sweat.Ā
He mutters, as if trying to deny himself ā ]
L-Lynette...
[ It was not Lynette that brought him that pleasure and he was left confused and ashamed. Fuck.
He takes time to clean himself up, using his shirt for sleep that was getting picked up tomorrow morning. Tossing it aside, the boy puts his half-erect cock into his sleepslacks and just curls to his side, looking at the knuckles he had bruised earlier.Ā
It takes little for him to drift off to sleep, all thanks to that comfort he allowed himself... even if it just raised more confusion. ]
[ A stop by the infirmary, a shower, and some hours later see Wriothesley alone in his quarters.
It's been a good while since curfew--which normally wouldn't mean anything, prone as he is to relegating his work to quieter hours. But he's done with the bulk of what he can do for the moment, and as for the rest of it...
He's having a hard time focusing on what's left.
Strange, to be feeling like that after a good fight. Normally a solid bout in the ring clears his head completely, sharpens whatever's gone dull within him. But the production zone's numbers run into each other, the proposed terms of a contract in negotiation become little else but slurry on paper, and Wriothesley is left with no choice but to put it all aside and make for his bed. Not that there's anything in particular bothering him; it's an indistinct haze he's in the hold of tonight, a tangled chain of somethings that ultimately amount to nothing.
He lies back against the pillows, crosses his arms behind his head. What to do, then? Count Sumpter Beasts? No, sleep sits on a higher shelf, unwilling to come down to him despite the energy expended earlier. Brew another pot? Then he'll really never get to sleep. Read? Maybe. He still hasn't finished that book from the former inmate.
The first link in that tangled chain, as it turns out.
330. He hasn't forgotten that little reminder. Hasn't forgotten much of anything to do with Lyney, though sometimes he thinks he'd be better off.
...Even seeing it that way lends more weight to what should be a strictly warden-inmate relationship. The scales shouldn't tip in one direction or the other; not outside of extreme cases, the ones that require the worst of his attention. But privately he knows they're long past that point. They probably have been from the moment he left that letter in the infirmary.
Where are they, then?
Wriothesley can't speak to that--especially not after their earlier banter, lighter than air, easy as could be--but he can speak to where he stands. It's time he admitted it, if only to himself. He's been overidentifying with the boy. Seeing in Lyney a life long past. Wriothesley stands firm in the belief that he's been reborn beneath these waves--but even in rebirth lies an inherent connection to the past; without it, the present cannot be. And just looking at Lyney--his wide eyes, his soft features--is a window into a past that opens at odd angles.
He sighs, closing his eyes. There. Step one, taken: he admits he's invested in Lyney, this magic performing, profoundly sassy version of his younger self running about his Fortress and taking for granted some of his best teas.
Step two. What does he want, then?
He knows he wants better for Lyney. Better than Meropide, better than the Fatui. Better than the Father who clearly strikes fear into him while he insists the contrary. There's too much in Lyney that goes to waste beneath his circumstances: the sky-bright charm, the quick wit, the sheer capacity for love he has for the people nearest and dearest to him. Lyney may be a reflection of his past, but Wriothesley is no indicator of Lyney's future. There's only so much he can do, only so much he can say to someone walking a spider's thread.
Step three. There isn't one, so far as he can improvise. So he moves back into step two.
He wants Lyney to stand tall. Speak his mind more often, instead of trying to control each narrative in his sugar sweet way. And maybe he wants more of whatever it was that moved between them earlier. He'd like to play dumb, but there is no getting around it: there was an energy between them, a breezy, enjoyable manner unburdened by their history. Yes--he wants more of that Lyney, the one who almost certainly stacks his deck but swears he doesn't. The one he may never see again, depending on how high he decides to build his walls within this place.
A hell of a lot of wants, he chides himself. But if he's allowed it, there's just one more.
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no subject
Maybe I'll be stuck in one of those pipes too long and unable to accept your invitation. How unfortunate.
[ Would it be unfortunate? It's just tea...
...Right? ]
Your cheek wouldn't be the only thing bruised, in that case.
[ His ego, unsaid. ]
no subject
I don't take bruises our Head Nurse can't patch up. [ Which reminds him, he's in for a scolding if he doesn't get a move on. Whoops. ] Until next time.
[ He makes his way for the exit, deciding he'll ponder on the handful of mistakes he made during the match on his stroll to the infirmary. The alternative is wondering what manner of conversation just transpired--maybe a mistake in itself, or maybe another little victory. ]
no subject
[ Wriothesley takes his leave and leaves Lyney confused. Why was he so... different? He actually didn't want him to go for a moment or two. It was easy to talk to him then, to not feel like he was a little worker bee in an entity he couldn't care less about.
He stays in line. Wakes up, works for coupons, writes his letters, and makes his deal with Wriothesley.
What else is there?
It's a countdown until he's gone... but he couldn't lie to himself that it was nice to actually smile. To feel a little less... alone. He hates how lonely he feels. His frustrations pale in comparison to what he's sure Lynette feels, he has to keep remembering that.
Those letters first delivered echo in his mind. Her bed is cold, after all, and even in his... he feels it. He hasn't slept alone in years and when his soulmate and twin is stripped from his side... there's only so much a boy like him could handle.
There's a vulnerability sproutingĀ in his heart he doesn't like. Fanning flames he didn't need to consume him. Bitterness, anger, frustrations.Ā
What does it boil down to?
He's lonely.
Plain and simple.
When he crawls into the bed for the night in his sleepwear, he didn't think he would be stuck re-reading Lynette's letters. The pile stacked at his side grows more like a mess as he goes through them -- until he allows himself a moment of delusion.Ā
Thinking of how Lynette wouldĀ fill the bed nicely with him, keep him warm... there's no way to avoid his reaction. His cock twitches to life until it's free to the air. It's been months and a gnawing sense of desire calls to him.Ā
Oh, how he wished it was Lynette's fingers wrapping around his cock, from base to tip. How he liked it best ā consumed with want and touch. His fingers hold tight, tugging at himself quickly enough to stifle a moan past his lips. This relief wasn't something he sought out often, but he needs this. He needs to delude himself in thinking of something other than the fear he has inside.
So he channels it in pleasure, in something he believes in ā that he hopes to always give Lynette.Ā
Lyney rolls his shirt up, bites the end to keep his stomach exposed. If he's going to make a mess, he's going to ensure he doesn't use the damn towels he has to work hard to keep after his shifts. The sound of his wrist hitting the base of his cock is like music to his ears, taking him to places far away from here.Ā
He thinks of it akin to taking Lynette from behind ā where her backside would impact so beautifully to his pelvis.Ā
The tip of his cock weeps pre-cum, sticky against his fingers as he works himself over. Tension in his heart, his mind, his body... they all bring him here. Frustrations beyond what he's ready to accept.
He thinks of Lynette, he always does ā but.
Something else flashes in his mind.
Lyney grunts at the realization that his cock twitches roughly between diligent fingers at the thought of Wriothesley. He can't shake the image from earlier -- bare chest, sweat and that softer way he looked to him. A curious thought annoys him more than he'd like to admit but it doesn't go away.Ā
The boy whimpers out, fingers moving down to cup at the swell of a smooth sac, fondling at himself in addition to his frantic tugs of his cock. He can't help it -- imagining now if Wriothesley'sĀ hands were capable of anything other than fighting.Ā
And he imagines them wrapped around him soon after. Touching at him, squeezing him. What it would feel like to touch Wriothesley in return. ...Would he be cold? Warm, just like Lynette...?
Fuck.
He can't do this -- he tilts his head away, burying into the smoothness of the pillow. Thinking of stubble on the crook of his neck, of rough hands on his body. A few idle bucks up into his grasp gives Lyney all the leeway he needs to chase his orgasm. An arch of his back helps control the angle, when he pitifully finishes on his stomach. It pools just under his belly button, seeping down to the top of his crotch as the boy collapses down in a frantic sweat.Ā
He mutters, as if trying to deny himself ā ]
L-Lynette...
[ It was not Lynette that brought him that pleasure and he was left confused and ashamed. Fuck.
He takes time to clean himself up, using his shirt for sleep that was getting picked up tomorrow morning. Tossing it aside, the boy puts his half-erect cock into his sleepslacks and just curls to his side, looking at the knuckles he had bruised earlier.Ā
It takes little for him to drift off to sleep, all thanks to that comfort he allowed himself... even if it just raised more confusion. ]
no subject
It's been a good while since curfew--which normally wouldn't mean anything, prone as he is to relegating his work to quieter hours. But he's done with the bulk of what he can do for the moment, and as for the rest of it...
He's having a hard time focusing on what's left.
Strange, to be feeling like that after a good fight. Normally a solid bout in the ring clears his head completely, sharpens whatever's gone dull within him. But the production zone's numbers run into each other, the proposed terms of a contract in negotiation become little else but slurry on paper, and Wriothesley is left with no choice but to put it all aside and make for his bed. Not that there's anything in particular bothering him; it's an indistinct haze he's in the hold of tonight, a tangled chain of somethings that ultimately amount to nothing.
He lies back against the pillows, crosses his arms behind his head. What to do, then? Count Sumpter Beasts? No, sleep sits on a higher shelf, unwilling to come down to him despite the energy expended earlier. Brew another pot? Then he'll really never get to sleep. Read? Maybe. He still hasn't finished that book from the former inmate.
The first link in that tangled chain, as it turns out.
330. He hasn't forgotten that little reminder. Hasn't forgotten much of anything to do with Lyney, though sometimes he thinks he'd be better off.
...Even seeing it that way lends more weight to what should be a strictly warden-inmate relationship. The scales shouldn't tip in one direction or the other; not outside of extreme cases, the ones that require the worst of his attention. But privately he knows they're long past that point. They probably have been from the moment he left that letter in the infirmary.
Where are they, then?
Wriothesley can't speak to that--especially not after their earlier banter, lighter than air, easy as could be--but he can speak to where he stands. It's time he admitted it, if only to himself. He's been overidentifying with the boy. Seeing in Lyney a life long past. Wriothesley stands firm in the belief that he's been reborn beneath these waves--but even in rebirth lies an inherent connection to the past; without it, the present cannot be. And just looking at Lyney--his wide eyes, his soft features--is a window into a past that opens at odd angles.
He sighs, closing his eyes. There. Step one, taken: he admits he's invested in Lyney, this magic performing, profoundly sassy version of his younger self running about his Fortress and taking for granted some of his best teas.
Step two. What does he want, then?
He knows he wants better for Lyney. Better than Meropide, better than the Fatui. Better than the Father who clearly strikes fear into him while he insists the contrary. There's too much in Lyney that goes to waste beneath his circumstances: the sky-bright charm, the quick wit, the sheer capacity for love he has for the people nearest and dearest to him. Lyney may be a reflection of his past, but Wriothesley is no indicator of Lyney's future. There's only so much he can do, only so much he can say to someone walking a spider's thread.
Step three. There isn't one, so far as he can improvise. So he moves back into step two.
He wants Lyney to stand tall. Speak his mind more often, instead of trying to control each narrative in his sugar sweet way. And maybe he wants more of whatever it was that moved between them earlier. He'd like to play dumb, but there is no getting around it: there was an energy between them, a breezy, enjoyable manner unburdened by their history. Yes--he wants more of that Lyney, the one who almost certainly stacks his deck but swears he doesn't. The one he may never see again, depending on how high he decides to build his walls within this place.
A hell of a lot of wants, he chides himself. But if he's allowed it, there's just one more.
He wants Lyney to be happy. That's all. ]